Cycles in Time
by child-dragon
Summary: A priest, Eonthane, is requested to help in the Caverns of Time, protecting Medivh as he opens the gate for the orc invasion. This cycle is different, however, and Eonthane and his new companions find themselves completely outmatched.


If he had known that the small group that approached him were all fated to die it would not have changed matters much. There was determination in the eyes of the paladin that lead them, an easy grin on his face, and those that followed him were of like demeanor. If he had known – if he had told them that morning in Shattrath when the mist still carpeted the ground – it wouldn't have changed a thing.

They wouldn't have believed him. They would have all gone and died.

As it was, Eonthane was stopped by a hail in his own tongue and the priest stopped but did not turn, only gave the slightest of acknowledgement by glancing over his shoulder. The mist was cold and he had little desire to be in the lower parts of the city longer than he had to.

"Priest!"

Eonthane waited for the elf to catch up. He stood in front of the elf, breathing slightly fast in his armor, the mist catching the light off his sword and turning into a prism. Eonthane waited while the paladin laughed and brushed off his helm, holding it lightly in his hand and seemingly undeterred by the priest's sour expression; smiled.

"You know of the bronze dragonflight, sir?" the paladin asked. Eonthane just nodded. "Good! Good. Well, listen, I hope you've worked for them before… we're planning on going down to those caverns today. We've been planning it and sadly our companion – a priest like yourself, but from the trolls – got roaring drunk the night before and now can't even wake up long enough to cure himself from his own hangover!"

He laughed and Eonthane decided that he disliked this paladin with an intense hatred, not just because he was a paladin. No, he dipped into the well of contempt he held for those who were cheerful and worse: cheerful in the morning. No one should be that buoyant, especially someone in plate armor.

"You need a stand-in." Eonthane's words were clipped and to the point. The paladin's expression fell into one of neutral curiosity and he studied the priest closer. It wasn't much to look at. Eonthane was frail and gaunt, his skin either pale or sunburned and his only truly attractive feature was the long red-brown hair that spilled over his shoulders and had the unwanted trait of giving him a feminine appearance.

"Well, if you phrase it like that, yes."

For a moment Eonthane looked away, pulling the fur-lined cloak Warraven had made him a long time ago closer. It served to hide the robes he wore and for once, make him look just like a normal sin'dorei, no one special, no power. Nothing. Originally it was just to keep him warm. That was all.

He had planned to work on some sewing today… There was a package of netherweave that needed to be woven together and then imbued and cut and measured – it could easily take all day if he took care with his work. The elf gently scratched at his small beard. But there was this restlessness that whispered at the back of his mind, urging him to go. Even though it was dangerous. Because it was dangerous. Eonthane turned back to the paladin.

"I'll come," he finally said, "Let me gather my things."

"Excellent!" the paladin beamed, "I'll get the rest and we'll meet at the caverns? Okay?"

Eonthane gave a slight nod and the paladin turned and broke into a jog. Eonthane watched him go and a second later the translucent form of a wolf broke off after him. The priest scowled. He hadn't seen the shaman watching. Well, he could just neglect to heal that one until almost too late. Eonthane pulled the hood of his cloak up so no one else would bother him and hurried through the mist. The sun had just peaked over the hills and in another hour it would all be gone.

"Here." The item being shoved in Eonthane's hand pulsed with power, a kind that the priest had never accessed. He silently took it and shoved it into a small pouch at his belt where it would be easily accessible. The others of the group were examining there's before also doing the same.

There was the paladin, who stood at the edge of the cavern, where it turned into the past, staring out into the forest with his sword and shield already drawn. One of the Forsaken, arguing with the shaman – orc – about the spirits and something about totems and poison. A third blood elf, mage, female. She had given him a few suspicious glances when the five of them all met up and then pointedly inquired about their usual priest to the paladin. Eonthane was not welcome. He made sure to stare at her when she was sure to notice, and to make sure it looked like he was trying to avoid being discovered.

"C'mon!" the paladin cried, "We've got a fight ahead of us."

The three followed him and Eonthane made to follow. As he passed the highborne elf his arm was seized. For a moment Eonthane tried to pull away, revulsion rolling in his gut. Dragons. Taking the form of what could no longer be. He hated this mockery. But the grip was firm and the priest had no choice but to relinquish and look at the pale-haired member of the bronze dragonflight.

"This particular moment in time is under continuous flux," the dragon says, "I'm sure you can gather that just by the fact we are having to send in parties every now and then to restore order. It's all circular priest-"

"I didn't come here for a lecture."

The dragon nodded briefly but didn't let go.

"This is important. This moment in time is circular to some degree, in that we always have to go back and ensure the infinite flight cannot prevail. This cycle, however, feels a bit different. You may have more than you're ready for."

"Why tell me this?" Eonthane managed to pull free this time but he did not leave, waiting for the dragon to finish.

"Because you're the one responsible for keeping them alive."

He spun and stalked off into the forest after the group. No. He wasn't responsible for keeping anyone alive except himself, and sometimes he even wondered if he should let that go. He chose to keep those around him alive. For convenience. Because he needed them. And for some other reasons he couldn't quite explain fully, not even to himself.

The dragon had been right. There seemed to be more of the strange flight than he had anticipated and the paladin's easy-going manner was quickly gone. Eonthane was pressed up against a tree, wiping back his hair and leaving his hand slick with sweat while the forsaken slit the throat of the dragonkin that had been trying to open Eonthane's stomach up. The priest focused, pulling on the mental discipline of his mind, and suffused both his body and that of the rogue's with pure power. It tugged at their wounds, demanding something, and the wounds sealed up. Eonthane gasped at the sensation of fire in his veins and demanded that he focus, used the pain to focus, and didn't even see the rogue give him a respectful nod before leaping back into the fray, landing squarely on top of a dragonkin's back and slamming a dagger into each side of the chest. He only saw what needed to be done, felt the power coursing in his veins, and each time he set it loose to perform its crude healing in bursts of raw magic his senses were overwhelmed with fire. It hurt.

In the middle of the battle was the paladin. On one side he snapped his sword down again and again, the motion to return it to its ready stance almost an afterthought. The quarters were close and already his armor was torn away in some places, Eonthane's sporadic bursts of power keeping him safe and mobile where the plate could not protect him from the dragonkin's claws. His shield covered the left and front side of his body and the periodic spells he called down in the name of the Light helped with the rest. The shaman was nearby, two maces in his hands as he fought as a dervish enveloped in the power of the air, his totems shuddering with the strength they contained. Eonthane had seen shamans fight before with the fury of the spirits behind them. They were a primal force and there was a driving intensity behind them. They would fight until they could literally no longer live – it wasn't a matter of fighting until exhaustion. The body would keep going until it gave way. The earth was behind them.

And across from him was the mage, also keeping her back against a tree as she channeled the arcane power in regular bouts of fire. He'd looked at her once, and she'd frowned, and set a good knot of the dragonkin on fire. The rogue was slipping back and forth between them, ensuring that any foe that got the wise idea to ignore the paladin and rip one of the casters to shreds would wind up with a nice piece of wire around its neck before it got close.

The tide of battle changed, so quietly at first that no one noticed it. But the mage got a wary expression on her face. Then the very ground beneath their feet shook and Eonthane was knocked to the ground. He glanced up and saw that the shaman had been similarly rattled. This wasn't his doing.

"Anyone know what that was?!" the paladin yelled, slamming the point of his shield down onto the neck of a dragonkin, who fell with a sickening snap.

"There's something different about this cycle…" Eonthane whispered but no one heard him. They were trying to finish up this last wave.

Eonthane felt like time slowed, a silly notion as he knew what it really felt like when time was being meddled with. But his brain took in the events so fast it felt like his body moved too slowly. The trees behind the group just exploded outward. He saw the mage impaled, landing with blood on her pretty robes and her pretty hair in the mud of the swamp. He couldn't do anything.

He saw the rest change targets. The dragon was immense, the ground itself shuddering under its weight and the trees simply snapping under its bulk. The rogue opened up neat little wounds on its hide and the blood mingled with the ground and water of the marsh, turning the landscape red. Eonthane tried to focus, tried to feel the fire in his veins and let the pain force his mind to ignore his panic.

They were all going to die. And he almost welcomed it. But not until there was nothing left in him.

Blood was running from his mouth by the time the paladin fell. Eonthane had exhausted everything he knew, summoned the shadows to restore to him strength, and now there was nothing left. He could only stand there and watch as the paladin stood up against the behemoth, and fall to its claws. Then it turned to him and he backed away.

All the things in his life, all the things he'd done… all the things his friends had hoped he would become. Someone of worth. He'd seen so much and it would all perish here. So he stood up and regarded the dragon, met its eyes, and smiled thinly. Did it know what it destroyed this day?

It laughed. The priest was backhanded through the trees and into a clearing where he hit the ground and rolled a couple paces. He tried to get up and felt the tight pressure on his chest where a rib must have snapped. Eonthane had managed to make it to his knees by the time the dragon caught up, walking lazily towards his prey.

"Champions!" Medivh cried, his spellwork faltering as he half-turned his head to see what the commotion was.

"We're all going to die," Eonthane said quietly, "I'm sure you soul will be welcome in hell. Perhaps I'll see you there."

The killing blow did not come. The dragon of the infinite flight didn't care about a broken priest that had nothing left to do. He cared about Medivh. And Eonthane struggled to stand and get back, get away, and watched as first the shield and then the great mage fell, bisected by the dragon's claws, unable to defend himself as all his energies were locked into one desperate attempt at defense.

Oh, did Eonthane know how that felt. He staggered, weariness tugging at him and pulling him down into the darkness. He fought it. He would be like the shaman, dying only because there was nothing left in the body to give.

"I've grown weary of mortal interference," the dragon growled, the sound almost cheerful and Eonthane cursed it. "I'm glad to see the heroes of Azeroth fail."

A clawed hand slammed down over the priest, pressing him into the soft earth and the broken rib lanced pain up through his side, causing him to let out a scream of pain. Eonthane hissed it back in. Focus. Use it to focus. He'd die ready.

"And the last of them here, a broken and useless elf." The dragon seemed to contemplate and then lifted Eonthane up like a ragdoll. The claws flexed and Eonthane braced himself. If the claws didn't get him the pressure of being crushed would.

The beacon slipped out of the pouch, the clasp having taken too much abuse and finally giving up. Eonthane focused on it for a second, felt the fire in his veins. There was a word he could use and he shouted it like a challenge, the dragon's fist smashing against the power that enveloped his frail body and Eonthane used that second to slip out, falling towards the ground.

He hit headfirst and again darkness clawed for him and he clawed for consciousness, remembering the feel of fire in his veins. The dragon roared in fury but Eonthane's hand was already around the beacon. It simply crumbled into sand in his hand and the power was unleashed.

There was warmth underneath him. Even here, so far underground, the sand was warm. The dragon standing above him dripped blood but did not look to his own wounds until the priest rolled onto his back, sand mingling with the blood on his side and face and matting in his pretty red-brown hair.

"It's not an utter failure," the dragon said calmly, "These things are circular in nature. We'll have to account for their increased efforts… and so will you."

"How…?"

"I pulled you out of there. Sadly, you were the only one I could save. Your nearness was enough so that I could grab you when the beacon summoned me, and then I was forced to flee almost immediately." The dragon paused. "I am sorry for your loss. Those who are lost in time are impossible to recover… we've sealed off that timeway until it can be repaired."

"They weren't my friends or anything," Eonthane muttered and tried to stand. Dizziness washed through him and he gave up the attempt.

"Still, I am sorry-"

"Shut up!"

He had some of his strength back now. It slammed into the dragon and the beast recoiled from the blow, from surprise more than pain. The spell had simply glanced off his mind, a brief flash of the emotions of the priest and the hatred he had wrapped into one neat little killing blow. Eonthane coughed up blood from the attempt and there was silence in the chamber for a moment.

"I see," the dragon murmured and carefully poked at Eonthane's nearby backpack until something rolled out, "You'll be wanting this, then."

And he turned and left, leaving the hearthstone nearby. Eonthane sat up, wiping the blood on the sleeve of his robe, finding it stained with bloodied mud to his disgust. They weren't his friends. He hadn't even bothered to learn their names. He took the stone, spoke the incantation, and let its magic wrap around him.

The innkeeper at the Scryer's Terrace was used to people coming and going at odd hours. He was used to them being in all sorts of states. Eonthane was no surprise – he'd seen worse. So the elf gingerly walked over, looking the priest over and frowning as Eonthane turned and leaned against the wall, hiding the worst of his injuries.

"I can summon a prie-"

And Eonthane cut him off there.

"What do I look like?" he snapped.

The innkeeper lowered his head and stared at Eonthane, then coughed.

"A priest. If you don't mind though, I dislike having patrons bleed to death on my floor. Bad for business."

"Then write my name down for a bath and a damn room," Eonthane retorted, "I can take care of myself."

"Of course."

The innkeeper scribbled something in his ledger and whistled for some of his attendants to come help the priest into the building. By his calculations the elf would manage to heal himself enough to bath and discard of the soiled robes before collapsing into bed. At that point he wouldn't be conscious enough to know if another priest came in and checked to make sure everything was healed correctly and in his weariness Eonthane hadn't fused a broken rib to the shoulder by accident. There happened to be a troll priest that had finally recovered from a hangover, after all, and was looking for something to do after he'd been left behind by his companions.


End file.
